Called Home
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: Faramir's Healing from his POV. Movie Canon. Finished.


  
  
Faramir wandered lost in shadows and rolling  
mists. He knew he must return to the Light and the  
world of Men - but he could not find the way.  
  
"Faramir!" his father's voice; mourning, hopeless,  
despairing of an answer.  
  
"Father I hear you, I am coming as well as I can!"  
his shout fell flat, muffled by the mists, and he knew  
with despair that Denethor had not heard.  
  
'I must come to him, we must not part like this  
with bitter words said to hurt, yet not truly meant,  
as our last memory of each other.'  
  
"Father! Father!"  
  
"Faramir?"   
  
A stirring of hope, Denethor had heard. "Wait for  
me, Father, wait!"  
  
'Don't do anything desperate, don't harm yourself  
before I can return to you, please Father.'   
  
Boromir was their father's favorite, this Faramir  
had always known, how could it be otherwise with such  
an elder son? Yet for all that he knew right well he  
was neither disregarded nor despised. Second to  
Boromir he might be, yet still first before all other  
things - even the White City and the realm itself.  
  
'Your father loves you." Mithrandir had said, and  
even in his grief and hurt he had known it for truth -  
or would have had he let himself.   
  
'I should not have gone. Yes the attempt to retake  
Osgilliath was worth risking, we might have won time  
if nothing else, would have if not for those archers.  
Massed bows I never expected - never have I seen such  
a tactic from Orcs before, nor read of it either.  
  
'But I should not have let Father drive me away  
with bitter words that he meant no more than I meant  
my jibe that he had sent Boromir to his death.   
  
'Why did I say that? Why did he say what he did?  
Why did we tear at each other in our grief rather than  
trying to console?'   
  
When did it go so wrong between them? It had not  
always been so. Looking back Faramir saw many good  
times, that he hadn't remembered for years, of the  
three of them together in the chase, listening to  
music and tales in the Hall, or simply talking late  
into the night over wine. Hours alone with his father  
pouring eagerly over dusty scrolls and ancient tomes,  
sharing their common love of learning. When had all  
that changed - and why?  
  
Perhaps it was just the war; the burden of Gondor  
and the nagging knowledge of her slow failing, and the  
terror of the Shadow in the East, slowly crushing the  
spirit out of them all.  
  
'No. Not all, not Boromir. But we had not his  
courage, Father and I. We lost hope, lost faith...lost  
each other.'  
  
"Father!" the shadows shifted, the mists rippled,  
but there came no answer. "Father!" Faramir shouted  
again, in terror. No answer. Nor would there be,  
Denethor had not waited. He was gone, this his son  
suddenly knew with absolute certainty.   
  
He almost gave up then, almost let the Darkness  
take him, but there was still Gondor. With Boromir and  
Denethor lost he was all their people had left - such  
as he was. He had to get back to them, at least he  
would try as long as he had the strength to strive  
with the Shadow.  
  
And strive he did. Against a power beyond his  
strength, losing, always losing, but refusing to  
surrender. He was a soldier of Gondor, however  
reluctantly, and he would fight Gondor's Enemy until  
overcome by main force.  
  
"Faramir!"  
  
The shadows trembled, the mists cringed. Faramir  
too trembled, though he knew not why. "Father?"   
  
"Faramir!"  
  
No, not Denethor. His father had not the power to  
make the shadows part and the mists roll aside as they  
did now before him. Opening a road to a distant light,  
small and bright as a star. He went towards it. Slowly  
at first, a little afraid, than with growing eagerness  
as the light neared and brightened.  
  
Then the Shadows were behind him and Faramir saw  
before him the likeness of a Man. Tall and dark  
haired, clad in shining garments with a star of living  
Flame upon his brow above eyes almost as silver-bright  
set in a face that might have graced a statue in the  
Halls of the King.  
  
Faramir knew at once upon whom he looked and was  
all but overcome by awe and wonder. The King held out  
his hand and, without hesitation, Faramir placed his  
in it - and felt a warm, very physical grip close  
around his fingers.  
  
He opened his eyes with a gasp. He was in an  
unfamiliar room lit by hearth fire and a few candles,  
smelling of soap and blood, and sounding with the  
moaning of Men in pain and the soothing murmurs of  
Healers and Nurses.  
  
A Man sat by his bed, one hand firmly clasped in  
his. Tangled hair framed a face grained with the grime  
of battle and lined with weariness. His clothes were  
rough and plain and he bore no sign of royalty save  
for the ring on his finger and the light shining in  
his eyes.  
  
Faramir looked upon the Mortal face of his King and  
lost his heart to him forever. "My Lord, you called  
me. I come." he whispered weakly, in all the voice he  
could manage. "What does the King command?"  
  
The King's smile transformed his sad, stern face  
filling it with a sudden, captivating warmth. "That  
you rest, and take food, and be ready when I call." he  
answered, then rose and gently disengaged his hand.  
"Now I must go to others that need me but I will  
return, my Steward."  
  
Faramir watched him go, determined to regain his  
strength quickly. For who would lie idle when the  
King, especially such a King as this, had returned at  
last?   



End file.
